They waited for that falling leaf

Of which the wandering Jogees sing: Which lends once more to wintry age The greenness of its spring.

O, if these poor and blinded ones
In trustful patience wait to feel
O'er torpid pulse and failing limb
A youthful freshness steal;

Shall we, who sit beneath that Tree
Whose healing leaves of life are shed,
In answer to the breath of
prayer,

Upon the waiting head;

Not to restore our failing forms,

And build the spirit's broken shrine,
But, on the fainting SOUL to shed
A light and life divine;

Shall we grow weary in our watch,
And murmur at the long delay?
Impatient of our Father's time
And his appointed way?

135

Or shall the stir of outward things Allure and claim the Christian's eye, When on the heathen watcher's ear Their powerless murmurs die?

Alas! a deeper test of faith
Than prison cell or martyr's stake
The self-abasing watchfulness
Of silent prayer may make.

We gird us bravely to rebuke
Our erring brother in the wrong,
And in the ear of Pride and Power
Our warning voice is strong.

Easier to smite with Peter's sword

Than "watch one hour" in humbling prayer.

Life's "great things," like the Syrian lord,

Our hearts can do and dare.

But oh! we shrink from Jordan's side,
From waters which alone can save;
And murmur for Abana's banks
And Pharpar's brighter wave.

O Thou, who in the garden's shade
Didst wake thy weary ones again,
Who slumbered at that fearful hour
Forgetful of thy pain;

Bend o'er us now, as over them,

And set our sleep-bound spirits free, Nor leave us slumbering in the watch Our souls should keep with Thee!

A DREAM OF SUMMER.

BLAND as the morning breath of June
The southwest breezes play;
And, through its haze, the winter noon
Seems warm as summer's day.
The snow-plumed Angel of the North
Has dropped his icy spear;
Again the mossy earth looks forth,
Again the streams gush clear.

The fox his hillside cell forsakes,
The muskrat leaves his nook,
The bluebird in the meadow brakes
Is singing with the brook.

"Bear up, O Mother Nature !" cry Bird, breeze, and streamlet free; "Our winter voices prophesy

Of summer days to thee!"

So, in those winters of the soul,
By bitter blasts and drear
O'erswept from Memory's frozen pole,
Will sunny days appear.
Reviving Hope and Faith, they show
The soul its living powers,
And how beneath the winter's snow
Lie germs of summer flowers!

The Night is mother of the Day,
The Winter of the Spring,
And ever upon old Decay

The greenest mosses cling.
Behind the cloud the starlight lurks,
Through showers the sunbeams fall;
For God, who loveth all his works,
Has left his Hope with all !

4th 1st month, 1847.

TO

WITH A COPY OF WOOLMAN'S JOURNAL. "Get the writings of John Woolman by heart." Essays of Elia.

MAIDEN! with the fair brown tresses Shading o'er thy dreamy eye, Floating on thy thoughtful forehead Cloud wreaths of its sky.

Youthful years and maiden beauty,
Joy with them should still abide, -
Instinct take the place of Duty,
Love, not Reason, guide.

Ever in the New rejoicing,
Kindly beckoning back the Old,
Turning, with the gift of Midas,
All things into gold.

And the passing shades of sadness
Wearing even a welcome guise,
As, when some bright lake lies open
To the sunny skies,

Every wing of bird above it,

Every light cloud floating on,

But, like some tired child at even, On thy mother Nature's breast, Thou, methinks, art vainly seeking Truth, and peace, and rest.

TO

O'er that mother's rugged features Thou art throwing Fancy's veil, Light and soft as woven moonbeams, Beautiful and frail!

O'er the rough chart of Existence,

Rocks of sin and wastes of woe, Soft airs breathe, and green leaves tremble,

And cool fountains flow.

And to thee an answer cometh

From the earth and from the sky,
And to thee the hills and waters
And the stars reply.

But a soul-sufficing answer
Hath no outward origin;
More than Nature's many voices
May be heard within.

Even as the great Augustine
Questioned earth and sea and sky,40
And the dusty tomes of learning
And old poesy.

But his earnest spirit needed

More than outward Nature taught, More than blest the poet's vision Or the sage's thought.

Only in the gathered silence

Of a calm and waiting frame Light and wisdom as from Heaven To the seeker came.

And without, with tireless vigor, Steady heart, and weapon strong, In the power of truth assailing Every form of wrong.

Guided thus, how passing lovely

Is the track of WOOLMAN's feet! And his brief and simple record How serenely sweet!

O'er life's humblest duties throwing Light the earthling never knew, Freshening all its dark waste places As with Hermon's dew.

137

All which glows in Pascal's pages,-
All which sainted Guion sought,
Or the blue-eyed German Rahel
Half-unconscious taught:-

Beauty, such as Goethe pictured, Such as Shelley dreamed of, shed Living warmth and starry brightness Round that poor man's head.

Not a vain and cold ideal,

Not a poet's dream alone, But a presence warm and real, Seen and felt and known.

When the red right-hand of slaughter
Moulders with the steel it swung,
When the name of seer and poet
Dies on Memory's tongue,

All bright thoughts and pure shallgather
Round that meek and suffering one,-
Glorious, like the seer-seen angel
Standing in the sun!

Take the good man's book and ponder
What its pages say to thee,
Blessed as the hand of healing
May its lesson be.

If it only serves to strengthen
Yearnings for a higher good,
For the fount of living waters
And diviner food;

If the pride of human reason Feels its meek and still rebuke, Quailing like the eye of Peter From the Just One's look!